happy new year

Yes, that time of year again.  Twelve months have passed, incredible in their speed!  To consider all that has occurred in this past year, dude!  Dude pretty much covers it, from going indie to battling goiters.  Let's not forget Thea's engagement and graduation, Bud also finishing college.  Jay and Bud moved home, then Jay moved out, and as this year ends Bob's feeling pretty good.  Well, right now he's in bed, so I imagine he's feeling drowsy, if not outright asleep.

Goiters and writing went hand in hand this year, but at the end, writing trumps!  (Take that you over-enlarged thyroid!)  But it wasn't just about writing.  2011 will linger for what occurred after the novel had been written and revised within an inch of its life; publication.  This year I published four novels.

I wrote nine drafts while formatting and editing those four indie manuscripts.  It's been a year of work and goiters, hummingbirds and kids, so many beautiful moments outweighing the slightly dodgy ones; I won't easily set aside fleeing the doctor's office when Bob's neck was prodded (expect something similar in a book one day).  Equally I can't forget the night I published A Right Turn At Jesus, all my kids save Thea in this not so large house as that novel went live.  Thea and I instant messaged, so even she was present.  It takes a village, or my similarly far-flung and wide family, to get this action off the ground.  My family figured heavily this year, partly due to my dad's ill health, but just the notion of how short life really is.  It's not long at all, so why not just do it?

Why not publish some books, write some more?  Why not write a few blogs (oh goodness!), why not take some trips (and come up with more book ideas), why not visit The National Mall or Alabama or SoCal, enjoying parts of American never before encountered.  Why not just let it all hang out and put novels online, why not just watch my beloved San Francisco 49ers go 12-3 for the first time in over a decade, like since 1997?  Why not I say, why not?

Why not look past what's expected, go above and beyond the call of duty?  2011 was a year of why not?  Why not just feed some hummingbirds and see what happens?  (They come back and want more!)  Why not release a novel, then another, then another (They seem to accumulate like the blasted h'birds!).  Why not write some music reviews, considering all the tunes I listen to? (Much different writing non-fiction, let me tell you!) Why not get that goiter out of Bob? (So Anna doesn't have to listen to the snorkling and snuffling anymore...)

Ahem, well, yes.  But as that goiter was kicked to the curb, so were expectations, usual assumptions.  Indie publishing is still odd to most, as in why not just do what's expected of you, unpublished and amateur author?  Well, why NOT publish independently?  Why should novels sit silently in hard drives or tucked in dark spaces?  Let the river run, I say, or rather Carly Simon sings.  Blast that song and see where you sit afterwards.  Whether it's how to publish or grappling with an uncooperative manuscript (not to mention a bothersome thyroid); what's holding you back, keeping you down?  What's tying hands behind your back or limiting your creativity?  We all have stumbling blocks, goodness knows nobody's immune from writer's slumps, dark spaces where nothing seems right or focused.  This year was a parallel of wondrous achievement slapped right alongside incredible fear; was Bob going to make it out of surgery all right?  Is my dad's health going to spiral south?  So far Dad is feeling no cancerous symptoms, and Bob?  Bob is planning on his trek when he rolls out of bed.  Now his legs hinder him, all that oxygen propelling him faster than his lower half can manage!  It's been one hell of a year, if I might say so.  But ultimately, good overcame the darker days, and on the last day of the year, I'm feeling fine, wonderful, wanting to shout from the rooftops; why not?

Maybe it's age, hitting my middle forties.  Maybe it's with kids really on their own, my life is again about me, Bob, hummingbirds, words.  The last two are new-ish in the big scheme, and while Bob's at work (or trekking the mountain) what about me?  Time is fleeting, also abundant.  The words are too.  More words than sense I often say, but here it is, sitting in my lap.  Type type typing more days than not, for some reason that has been building as every year passes.  Five years ago I spent this day in Yorkshire, England, aware it was my last in the UK.  Last New Year's Eve, last year there in all probability.  But it was my first as a writer, 100K of Drop The Gauntlet safe in a laptop.  In 2007 I was here in California, three more novels added to that initial foray.  2008 piled a few more, 2009 plopped a heft onto the pile.  In 2010 I had over thirty manuscripts, wondering what came next.  In 2011, I found that answer.  It had a little to do with goiters, but mostly about liberation.  As of today, four novels are available, in addition to Drop The Gauntlet; dude!

Dude indeed!  Whatever 2012 brings, may it be all you could desire.  And for the bumpy bits, well, at the end of the day even a coup-plotting thyroid was a part of the mystery.  Let the new year guide you to pleasures and thrills, peace and joy.  Now I'm off for a cuppa, and to feed those buzzing hummingbirds.  Bob's neck is clear, but those birds, oi!  I'm coming, I'm coming...

the first forty

Not to be presumptuous, but today I completed my fortieth novel.  And while I could get hit by a bus tomorrow (or later today, one never knows), I'm thinking there might be another forty or so stories waiting for their moment.  I have the ideas, that's not an issue.  Time is fleeting, speeding at a rate that makes me dizzy.  2012 is right around the corner, but For God And Country is done.  My ninth manuscript this year, forty overall.  So maybe another thirty or forty are out there, waiting to slip through my fingers.  After the last five years I've had, anything can happen!

It's been five years since I started writing fiction, really getting my feet wet.  But since the summer of 2009, well, let's say a downpour has fallen; more than half were written starting with The War On Emily Dickinson to the most recent addition.  What does this mean?  Well, on the outset, it stems from receiving supportive feedback from my stint in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award competition.  Nothing like hearing good things to spur the muse.  Yet, something else, a deeper purpose; suddenly ideas were flying left and right, and the time, oh my, how the time was utilized!  Twenty-seven first drafts have been crafted from August 2009 to today, the twenty-ninth of December 2011.  Three of those have been indie published, several won't see the light of day.  The bulk, well, many will be released in the coming years, as will some previous to that wordy explosion.  From where it comes, I don't question.  Like the old saying goes, when God says jump, don't ask how high.

Don't ask, for two reasons; one is that you wouldn't believe it if he told you.  The other is if you knew and accepted it, a barrier would be set, a ceiling placed over your head.  But if it's all unknown, well, anything can happen, the possibilities are endless!  If after that contest in 2009, if you had told me I'd set on this course, from all those drafts to going indie, hah!  I'd would have laughed myself silly.  Who could write that many tales, who wants to stray from the comfortable, if not dodgy, path of traditional publishing?  Without any idea of how far and to where, I just took each step, holding to the knowledge anything was possible.  And I mean anything.

What else does this mean?  It means don't stop writing.  Don't let anyone or anything deter you, even if the edges are fuzzy, the center at times unstable.  If you have faith, some or any, hold to that.  Let the dream lead you on an unbelievable, beautiful road.  With forty novels written in five years and five manuscripts published, I can rightly say the only thing to prevent your dream is fear.  Whatever writing means to you, in any form, don't be afraid.  Let those fingers, stories and dreams fly!

sounds of silence

Right now it's me and Simon & Garfunkel.  Bob's on his walk, Bud's running errands, Thea and Brian are with his folks and Jay and her posse have gone to retrieve a vacuum.  She borrowed ours and returned it a bit dodgy.  My sister Lynn took the kids' hoover in summer, as there just wasn't room for it in my car or the moving truck when we moved Jay and Bud back to the Bay Area.  Lynn and her husband fell in love with the Dyson, a marvel of British engineering.  Aware that Jay would trek north for said hoover, Lynn got a new one, and now mine won't be subjected to what a houseful of girls and guys traipse across the cream carpet.

That has little to do with writing, only an anecdote.  Also indicative of the coming year; people making their own lives, vacuuming their own houses.  Thea and Brian will be sorting their own domain soon enough, Jay pleased as punch at her place.  Bud's happy to hang out with us folks, and his presence is a pleasure.  The goiter is gone (good riddance!) and life goes on.  Christmas with all my kids was fabulous, watching Doctor Who, then Bob's Packers grabbed another victory!  New books await my attention, a lovely teapot from Bud gracing my morning brew, no drips from the spout!  Then Christmas ends, Boxing Day to follow; Bob and I took a drive after breakfast with Thea and Brian, a little shopping for reduced festive gift wrap, bows and tags.  Then more footie last night, but by then it was quiet.  Just myself and the husband, snuggled close.  Not as in years past when small children clamored and whooped; time moves along, providing new joys, different thrills.  I'm looking at 2012 with similar eyes; I'll always be a writer, but now I'm a publisher too and I can't wait to note that avenue.

I had coffee this morning with my delightful buddy Julie Rose.  She's looking at the new year with excitement, her second novel Oleanna to be released at the end of January.  We chatted about Christmas, Doctor Who, indie publishing, and I left with such a warm spirit.  Also questions, some of which I'll soon expound, as well as more about Julie's new novel.  As this year was spent jumping into the independent publishing pond, 2012 will explore that pool's dimensions, tiptoeing along the edges, feeling how deep it goes.  Pretty far down, I would imagine, as far as I want to take it.

Indie publishing is here to stay, for which I am so grateful!  Technology offers wide possibilities for writers, but it's about the writing, it has to be.  Which I have done in copious doses for the last couple of years; time for me to reap the benefits of all that typing.  As this year comes to a close, I have a novel to finish, editing that never ends.  But these last quiet days have been necessary, sounds not familiar to life as a writer.  Then Bob returns from his walk; his newly freed air passages spur his legs, causing slight knee issues.  Rockabilly and doo-wop spill from his PC; those are some of the usual tones.  I'm hoping to tackle some editing this afternoon, the soothing tap tap tap of my fingers on keys, leading 2011 to a satisfying conclusion.  A proper end-of-year post is in the works, but for now I'm slowly returning to the land of writing.  And publishing.  And whatever else comes along...

chestnuts roasting...

Hummingbirds fed.  Kitchen mopped.  Laundry done.  Petrol acquired.  Pressies wrapped.  Goodies made (thanks mostly to Thea and Brian).  I still need to fix Grandma's fruit salad; canned pineapple, mandarins, fruit cocktail, marshmallows, coconut and a bit of sour cream.  Otherwise, it's looking a lot like Christmas...

When we lived in Britain, I got into the habit of cleaning house on Christmas Eve; I think it went along with how in the UK shops closed for Christmas and Boxing Day.  The whole country shut down, it was so wonderful!  Now on Christmas Eve I have this unshakable need to tidy, from laundry to vacuuming, all in between.  I sorted those chores, then sat down for an afternoon of football, as Thea and Brian arrived, as Bud ran some last minute errands, as Jay popped in to wrap presents.  We'll see her again tomorrow; she's with her boyfriend's family tonight.  Tonight we're watching TV; Jaws at the moment, interspersed with Die Hard, Deep Space 9 on the way.  If we last, church is at 11; I had some late afternoon tea, along with Hello Dolly and crumb bars that Thea made, while sweating out my 49ers against the Seattle Seahawks.  The Niners won 19-17, whew!

Christmas Eve with older kids isn't much different than when they were little; Thea is exuberant, Jay was giddy.  Bud's hanging back and Brian is adjusting to our traditions; Thai food, some TV and goodies.  Tomorrow morning we'll eat some cinnamon and orange rolls, open presents, faff about.  Ham and garlic potatoes are the dinner fare, then Bob's Green Bay Packers along with Doctor Who.  The Christmas TV shows were a big deal in England, another tradition following us across the pond.  That footie is on tomorrow night, Bob's favorite team, is a bonus!  Christmas is about surprising joys, imminent thrills, deeper meanings.  I love deeper meanings.

One of the deepest is my children.  All my brood is home this year; as small kids, they were always close.  Now their presence is a gift, perhaps one of the biggest.  What sits under the tree is a blessing, but it's those I love who bring my largest smiles.

HI EVERYONE THIS IS THEA MERRY CHRISTMAS NOW BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOGGING KTHNXBAI

See what I mean?  Thea is the big helper, even though she's the shortest in the family.  This time next year she and Brian will be... who knows where!  Married, maybe making their own Christmas traditions. But this year they're here, under our roof, and I couldn't be happier.  Like a book that flows without any set outline, but writes itself, is how this holiday season has unfolded, goiters and all.  I don't know when we will all share these days again, but this year we're together, and I'm thankful for family, health, for many wonders.  The ultimate gift is something indescribable, but it runs through my hands, the words, through all I am.  Christmas is one day but the peace and humility reverberates.  Whatever you're doing, may it be full of joy and hope.

write left write

So now that Bob's feeling so well, I don't need to remember how to leave the UCSF car park.  Right left right isn't necessary information, but for how long it stays in my brain, who knows!  Occasionally I still think of Species 8472; maybe watching Deep Space 9 on DVD for the last few nights keeps the Star Trek inferences afloat.  No better writing on American TV than DS9; tight, meaningful, nothing superfluous.  If sci-fi isn't your bag, ignore the alien prosthetics and let the drama sweep you away.  Masterful how Marc Alaimo as Gul Dukat oozes sincerity toward his daughter Ziyal while plotting to betray their Federation allies.  Melanie Smith's poignancy haunts, torn between her manipulative father and his enemy, Garak, who is one of my favorite DS9 recurring characters.  Andrew Robinson layers a bone-chilling spy with sarcasm and humanity; he doens't understand why Ziyal cares for him, but enjoys any way to dig at Gul Dukat.

Okay, loads of Trek fodder this morning, blame my head cold.  Blame the early hour or Tylenol and antihistamine. Blame the writer in me; I haven't done anything author-like in two days and I'm getting twitchy.  Watching great drama makes me long to return to a project, either in the writing (For God And Country) or editing (September Story, The Thorn And The Rose).  I have been plotting, oh good grief!  Yes, I have another novel spinning, but I've also dealt with real yarns; I made a scarf yesterday, not much else for me to do.  Jay might bring a few friends over for Christmas, and I wanted to have something under the tree for them.  All I did yesterday was crochet, blow my nose, wash my hands, drink tea, repeat.  And watch DS9, savoring crisp dialogue, entwined storylines, great sacrifice, horrendous betrayal.  Under the headpieces and makeup, Deep Space 9 is Shakespeare, set on a space station.

Where are your writing worlds centered?  Most of mine are right here in California, a few in Britain, in modern times.  I've dabbled in sci-fi, For God And Country and In The Blue, but both bubble with ordinary angst, my stock in trade.  DS9 is the same, feuds and camaraderie, love and treachery.  The triumph of good over evil; few characters are as twisted but fascinating as Gul Dukat.  Deep Space 9 mined their secondary cast for all their worth; Alaimo and Robinson, the superb Jeffrey Combs as a smarmy Vorta or a ruthless Ferngi, once playing both roles in the same episode!  J.G. Hertzler stuns as the one-eyed Klingon General Martok; how often do you keep reading due to the recurring personas?  Main characters need a great supporting cast, which DS9 has in abundance.  One of the joys in writing a series was introducing those who fleshed out the story.  Alvin's Farm is about Alvin and Jenny, Sam and Tommie, but without Tommie's wife Rae, Sam's brother Jacob and all the rest, pages would lie empty, the tale falling flat.  I needed more than Alvin, Jenny, Sam and Tommie to fill six books, and yes, juggling a large ensemble wasn't easy, but the reward is great, layers and lives adding to the soup.

I was never a Star Trek TOS fan.  Call it a Shatner-aversion, but Bob brought Star Trek TNG into our lives when the kids were little.  Star Trek and Star Wars cross lines often in our household; I can't stand the last three Star Wars flicks (or are they really the first three?) about as much as I detest the ancient Star Trek episodes.  But give me Deep Space 9 any day of the week, head cold or no.  So much goes into good television (on the other side of the shore, check out Doctor Who, which deserves its own separate post, maybe the next time I get a head cold); tightly woven plots, surprises and honest characterizations.  In sci-fi, faces can distract but nothing disguises bad writing.  When I take in great drama, it ups my game, makes me antsy to feel better, to return to work, yet work is a misnomer.  Anyone who writes knows the truth; passion, desire, need.  I need to get back into the groove, not just wax about it here.  But for now, that's about all I can give, illness and upcoming holidays standing between me and my adored occupation.

Christmas is one of my favorite seasons, this year especially, all my kids (and maybe some extras) home.  Equally I've been blessed with the burning call to create, a bit muted at the moment, but a few episodes have reignited that fire, stoking that flame.  The last couple of nights Bob has dangled decade-old science fiction so close; no telling what tickles the muse, but I'm hoping we'll get a few more episodes tonight.  Thea and Brian will be over for dinner, Bob and Bud commandeering the barbecue, Jay assisting if she doesn't have work.  It's been a strange December, no rain, sunny days the rule.  My evening plan is to sit with family, a burger in hand, more great DS9 on tap.  Not exactly A Miracle On 34th Street, but certainly some of the best TV made in America.  Which will hold us all until Christmas Day, when the other side of the pond's fabulous science fiction hero graces the screen.  But I'll blog about Doctor Who another day...

attack of the pre-Christmas head cold

I woke with a sore throat.  Usually I don't.  Usually I wake feeling pretty good.  This morning was different.

Football wasn't to blame; my beloved 49ers actually beat the Pittsburg Steelers, blackouts be darned!  Twice the lights went out at Candlestick Park, but the Niners' defense wouldn't be dimmed.  Bob and I watched football last night, then crashed late, after I noted all the post-game wrap-ups.

My throat didn't hurt when I went to bed.

Now it's my runny nose, tired eyes, halted demeanor.  Thank goodness the Christmas shopping is nearly done.  Bob has a few bits left, good thing he's fully mended.  Not sure when the plethora of goodies will be made; this is a strange holiday, what with a recovering spouse, trying to complete a novel and now a humdinger of a cold.  And my 49ers are 11-3.  In December, and it's 2011.  Not the 1980s or even the early 1990s.  Those were the last glory days for the San Francisco 49ers.  An odd time has fallen, lights going out at the stadium, our defense picking off three passes, also collecting a fumble.  A bad night for Pittsburg's quarterback, suffering a bum ankle, but that has nothing to due with my illness.  I'm fuzzy, hazy, on drugs and tea and half a chocolate banana muffin.

Not sure what this means for the rest of the week.  All I know is Bob's getting us dinner tonight, Lillie Mae's Soul Food.  That's not entirely Christmasy, but then here in California it's sunny, dry (So very day with no rain in weeks!), not cold.  60 F right now, at 3.54 p.m and I need a Kleenex.  Stay warm and healthy wherever you are.  Or if its hot, keep cool and in tip-top shape!

in the dark

If you suddenly found yourself twenty years in the past, thirty even, how would your writing change?

My house is fairly quiet, Bob and Bud sleeping, only some computer music for company, 50 Words For Snow, Kate Bush's new album, which I also own on vinyl.  But where the stereo sits is along Bud's bedroom wall, and while it's not a noisy record, it is just 6.21 in the morning.  Yes, on Sunday, I'm awake at 6.21, why it's dark, quiet, making me ponder such questions.  If I was transported to 1991 or 1981, would I still be able to write?

Darkness winds odd questions into my head, novels too.  I came up with The War On Emily Dickinson in the middle of the night, a few others too.  When Bob wakes, we'll go to breakfast.  I'll write this morning, as my 49ers don't play until tomorrow.  I'll wrap some Christmas presents, as they are accumulating.  I have a load of wash that didn't get done yesterday, things I did twenty and thirty years ago.  But I wasn't writing then, I was in high school in 1981, caring for small toddlers and thinking about having baby number 3 in 1991.  Jay came over yesterday to do laundry; she's nineteen and living out of the house, but still our youngest; she napped on the sofa as I got her towels from the dryer, putting in her other load.  She and her housemates are getting a washer and dryer this week, but a few bits needed a wash.  Plus she cleaned my bathroom for me, sweet girl!

But in the dark, all those normal moments slip away.  With just one light in the kitchen and the glow of a monitor, it's a different world, it's nearly the end of 2011 but easily 1991 or 1981, a few decades in the past.  And if I found myself there, at this age and novels accumulated, would I still be able to write as prolifically as I do now?  How much of my creative outburst relies on a desktop, seventeen thousands songs right at a click, an iTouch to read over those novels, and read other novels.  How much of my writerly life is tied into the present day and all these accouterments?  A few passings makes me wonder; Christopher Hitchens and Vaclav Havel, and Russell Hoban in the last few days, Christopher Logue at the beginning of the month.  Those men used typewriters, had no Wikipedia, did it the hard way.  I have it easy, in many respects, Smashwords to distribute my ebooks, Lulu for print novels, the web for research and outreach.  Strip all those elements, plop me in front of an electric or even manual typewriter, and just what would I do?

I try to keep things simple, but I am bound to this time, these advances, this life.  I highly doubt I'll find myself set twenty or thirty years in the past, for which I am grateful.  I won't ask how writers did it in the old days, because the rules are changed due to computers and the web, but a writer still needs to write.  How dependent am I on modern conveniences; pretty dependent.  Blogging and Smashwords are just one segment.  All editing is done on my PC, not to mention formatting novels.  At times I feel tied to my computer, work-times.  Did writers in the past feel that way toward their typewriters?  Or perhaps glued to their mailboxes or wherever the post arrived; how would I cope in that sort of environment?

In the dark questions swirl; I am so thankful to be where I am time-wise when it comes to writing, but sometimes it feels too invasive, too much information.  All I have to do then is get up from my chair, find another tasking. But if I did find myself back in time, all the tales within my brain would probably still churn.  I'd need to locate some White-Out and paper, find a typewriter, then see what happened next.

bits and bobs

So today my indie novels began appearing on Kobo.  That site had been in limbo since summer, probably due to Borders going under.  About two weeks ago ebooks were shipped, and I patiently waited, checking often, to no avail.  I really didn't want to write to Smashwords, partly because a heap of novels were sent to Kobo, also I didn't want to complain.  Well, maybe those are the same reason.  Anyways, I received a wonderful surprise this afternoon; A Right Turn At Jesus showed up first, then The War On Emily Dickinson.  Hopefully over the next day or two A Slider, Tumbling and Alvin's Farm will appear; the latter has been shipped to all the usual distributors, so I wait to see it on Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Diesel and Sony.  Sony takes an extra week; they require the ISBN numbers first, then the books appear.

Details that an indie author needs to consider; it's not just about writing.  But, and I firmly believe this, it needs to be about writing first.  Recently I've found that maybe that isn't what drives all indie authors.  But it should; indie authors need to write great books.  Or at least really good books, if they want to be successful.  Now success, success...  Success is different for each person, but by hanging out a shingle that says WRITER, the product needs to substantiate the title.  In my very humble opinion, an indie author has to put the writing first.

Okay, so onwards...  Frances the badger was one of my childhood heroes.  Writer Russell Hoban died recently, but he wasn't just a children's book author.  Still, I will never forget Frances' spunk or slight suspicions.  All the tributes I read noted that Hoban was addicted to writing.  I understand that notion well.  There is a thrill, a high, some nirvana-like state when in the middle of fashioning a novel.  I have so many ideas, probably more than sense, one of my driving forces.  Publishing independently doesn't necessarily factor into it; I have plenty of manuscripts.  But indie writers do themselves a favor by having an array of novels for readers to peruse.  It behooves an indie author to practice their craft, if nothing else.  I have no idea what Russell Hoban would have thought of going indie, but I bet Frances the badger would have considered it an option, if she wrote books.

But Frances was a badger, although that's not to say a badger couldn't write a novel.  Publishing is changing, so maybe a badger could tell their tale.  The guard isn't what I knew when I first read Bedtime For Frances, but nothing lasts forever.  Not traditional publishing, not even Kodak.  I read this article a while ago, mostly because I've known Kodak all my life.  Now Kodak is nearly kaput, but not due to no one taking pictures.  The manner of photography has changed, a process technology as LA Times writer Michael Hiltzik notes.  He compares Kodak to other shaky businesses; newspapers, book publishers, movie studios and record labels.  Yet these businesses are faltering not due to outdated products, but lagging distribution models.  Which brings me back to my initial topic for today; indie novels and the way to reach readers.  Online retailing is a fact of life for writers, especially for indie writers.  Ebooks won't disappear, neither will digital music or streamed TV shows or news on the web.  These are technologies just like microwave ovens and dishwashers, items our grandparents and great-grandparents never dreamed of, but make our lives that much easier.  I don't predict the future, but I'm pretty pleased to be publishing my own books just how I want to do it.

But I won't forget my first camera, a Kodak Instamatic with the ice-cube flash.  If Frances the badger took pictures, I bet she used an Instamatic too.

Christmas prep and writing

On Sunday all the kids were around, and they put up our tree.  Jay had to work, so decorations were left to Thea and Brian, and while it's a small tree this year, it looks very lovely.  This will be the first year with all the kids home, the fiance included.  I am looking forward to the holiday with great anticipation!

Got back to work today, starting a round of revisions on September Story, for publication late next spring.  But more pressing was pulling out the WIP; six chapters of For God And Country remain, and I hadn't touched that poor manuscript in over a week.  Usually I'm pretty focused, daily writing of a novel until it's done.  Other things have been higher on the list, but with an open morning, I sat down, read over the last few pages, then listened to a song from Death Cab For Cutie; "Unobstructed Views".  I took a sip of tea, gazed out the window, then set fingers to the keyboard.  A few hours later I had a chapter completed, which felt so GOOD!  I'm hoping to finish the novel before the end of the year, but if it lingers into January, well, so be it.  Thea has finals this week, her whirlwind visit north over the weekend a taste of what it will be like soon; she flies back to our neck of the woods this Friday for a nice long break.  Bob has some doctor visits, Christmas shopping to accomplish, but I did get my cards sent out.  The tree is up, decorations scattered.  I need to get the holiday dishes in the cupboards, need to have a look at the next book in the Alvin's Farm series.  I'm enjoying having my husband around, especially since he's feeling pretty well.  It was a treat with all the kids close on Sunday; Thea and Brian even sat through the evening footie, bless their hearts!  I love this season, the closing of another year, reflecting on what the last eleven months have wrought.  Plenty of good things for my family, a few dicey moments too.  Overall, it's been a fine collections of days, but I'll tackle a wrap-up in a future post.

For now, I'm just relieved to get another chapter under my belt.  Also pondering indie publishing; if you're interested in Amazon's latest move with independent authors, have a look here.  I wrote some musings on my publishing blog; lots to consider if going indie tickles your fancy.

NaNo and the (hopefully) last word on goiters

Let me first state this; I am a writer, not a medical technician or associate or anything medically enhanced at all.  Cut me and I bleed words.  This whole hospital/thyroid drama has been more than I ever wanted to experience, but sometimes we get more than we bargained for.  Bob is recovering well, his neck sort of puffy, his voice returning. It's odd to think he has to take meds for the rest of his life, but lots of people do.  Nonetheless, I will be so relieved when this is but a faint memory, something we ponder with awe, as in how glad it has passed, and how so many things went right.

I look back on November the same way; I hit my NaNoWriMo 2011 goals, but also found a surprise; I couldn't write For God And Country and Penny Angel concurrently; heck, at the rate I'm going, FGAC will be completed in 2013.  That's a small joke, because as soon as it's feasibly possible, I will get that book sorted, maybe back to it tomorrow, depending on the husband.  NaNo 2011 will be recalled for how I relearned to write in a not-very-NaNo way, and a pesky goiter that didn't take over Cleveland.  It wanted to, but Bob had the last laugh.

So NaNo, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month...  Well, I have Penny Angel to show for it, half of FGAC.  NaNo was full of a new website, beta testing in September and October that led to November, so I was pretty revved up for writing.  Things went well for about four days, then I had my TMI meltdown at the doctor's office.  After that, November meant something else.

But that's part of the challenge, what I found during Camp NaNoWriMo over summer, which inadvertently prepped me for last month.  And probably for 2012; I want to focus on publishing, hopefully finding some peaceful coexistence between that and writing.  I love writing, don't get me wrong, but for the last two years I have done A LOT of it.  So much that a small sabbatical looks great, refreshing, necessary.  Not that I'm kicking NaNo to the curb, only that during the last few years manuscripts have multiplied like rabbits.  Time to sit back and take stock; what Bob's goiter did for me at the beginning of this year, and now at the end, it's gone, the landscape altered.

Now, I want to slip this in without sounding like a curmudgeon; the same thing is looming for NaNoWriMo.  Even with this being Chris Baty's last year on board as executive director of OLL, funding has been low.  It's always low, the eternal fate of most non-profits.  But in nearly mid-December, The Office of Letters and Light is looking at a real shortfall, over $200K behind where they need to be.  Not sure where that will leave Script Frenzy, Camp NaNoWriMo, NaNo and the Young Writer's Program in 2012.  I'd hate any of these cut or curtailed, but the bottom line is bleak; if money runs low, something's going to get the axe.  Time was squeezed for me last month, For God And Country suffered.  Priories get juggled.  A long-time NaNo supporter, I'm curious how this will fall out, how I felt earlier this year when Bob was told his poor breathing wouldn't kill him, a quality of life issue.  By October, the rules had changed; that goiter had to go.

He breathes so quietly now.  His blood pressure has lowered, no nosebleeds, and even with the risks of surgery, it is a tremendous blessing now that it's over.  Mostly over; follow-up appointments await, plus the pill he takes every day, for the rest of his life.  But overall, it was a good thing.  He wasn't looking forward to it AT ALL, a most unkind cut, but really, the best way to go.

Similarly, I wonder if OLL makes some unpleasant decisions, perhaps that too will be for the best, long-term. Hard to think long-term, because it's the here and now we experience.  I have to think long-term for publishing; currently it's a small, quiet animal, but I am SO GLAD I did it, and look forward to whatever 2012 holds.  Less writing, more formatting, a shift in direction.   Bob's long-term prognosis is easier breathing interspersed with doctor's visits to check hormone levels.  And NaNoWriMo?  That's a big question mark.  Chris Baty's departure is like that goiter's removal, like taking a vital organ from OLL, yet, it will survive.  Not without some pains and readjustments, but OLL as a whole isn't going to fall apart.  As Chris wrote, the next chapter of NaNoWriMo is for us Wrimos to write.  For thirteen years he did his part with immense cheer and aplomb.  I thank Chris Baty and all those at OLL from the bottom of my writerly soul; without them my authorial dreams wouldn't have flowered.  This blog wouldn't exist, all my stories locked in the deepest recesses of my brain.

Bob has quietly mentioned he hopes his thyroid doesn't grow back.  I roll my eyes when he says this; no, that goiter is gone, GONE!  As for NaNo...  It will return, perhaps limited, maybe no Camp next summer, maybe no Young Writer's Program.  I HOPE nothing will be tweaked for the worse, but time will tell the outcome.  Maybe, if some part is lost, it will only be temporary.  Or maybe not.  If the doctor hadn't removed all of Bob's thyroid, it could have grown back.  That would be the ONLY way (rolling my eyes again), but the whole kit'n'kaboodle was taken, so no more goiter.  The Office of Letters and Light will continue, perhaps in a new direction.  Definitely with a new executive director.  Whoever that is, I wish them the very best, and pledge my continued support for programs that excite the imagination, spark the creative juices, making dreams come true.  And then, well, then I'll do what comes naturally, pulling out yet another manuscript for inspection, add another song to a novel playlist.  Then sit my butt in the chair, crack my knuckles, get back to spinning yarns.  Now with this goiter outta the way, that's what it's all about.

And Bob, kids, tea, the hummingbirds, football, etc....

cheezbugga, cheezbugga

Lounging vertically on the sofa, Bob had his first post-goiter dream this morning.  I was doing some Rigorous Morning Overhauls on the last book of the Alvin's Farm series as he silently napped, he is so quiet now!  When he woke, his soft voice raspy not just from neck surgery but a recovering right vocal chord (pinched by that awful goiter), he noted he had dreamed about a cheeseburger, his first dream since Monday.

I asked if the cheeseburger was fresh.  He said no, that it had been microwaved.  That was all he remembered.

He's doing so well considering he lost a good amount of blood.  No transfusion was needed, but the lead-up to surgery wasn't easy; his trachea had been reduced to half a centimeter in diameter and a camera would be eased down his throat before the tube to put him under.  And this would all be done while he was still awake!  Right before they wheeled him away, he was sucking down lidocaine to numb his throat, very unpleasant, but he recalls nothing of the ten minutes it took them to position the fiber-optic camera, then the anesthetic tube.  They said he was patient, and all he recalls is one asking the other if he'd been given the purple yet.  No, came the answer, then Bob was out.

No idea what the purple was, and now he's dreaming of cheeseburgers.  I am so relieved and pleased for how everything went, the wonderful surgical team and fabulous nurses afterwards.  It's going to be a while before Bob is truly back on his feet, so in the meantime, if you're looking for writing-type posts, I started a new Year Of blog on the first of December, which might run for thirteen months, we'll see how I'm feeling late next November.  A Year Of Publishing, Independently is the exact title, full of all things indie publishing.  I've not yet had time to properly announce it, but I suppose a dreamy cheeseburger is the perfect herald.  A Year Of Writing, With Hummingbirds will wind down in a few weeks, but I will finish For God And Country this month or eat a cheeseburger trying!

Or Bob will enjoy one for me, either in sleep or held in his recovering hands...

post-goiter update

Well it's gone, I'm home, and Bob's sleeping, I hope. He was nearly there when I left, had been on his feet, his neck quite petite, a little wrinkly, a half-pound goiter outta there!  All went well, he was breathing on his own even before he reached recovery.  So it's time for some shut-eye, then back to San Francisco tomorrow.  And maybe I'll bring him back with me, if the doc give the go-ahead.

Again, thank you SO MUCH for thoughts and prayers.  Everything went so well, I am in awe.

Now, where's my bed???

As of noon on Tuesday, Bob was home!  As of half an hour later, he was sleeping so very quietly.  Again, thanks for all the comments and support; we both really appreciate it!

big day coming

Tomorrow Bob has surgery, so it will be a quiet week.  No work, just driving from the valley to the tip of the peninsula, keeping an eye on the clock.  A long day, one of those sorts of days that you can't prepare for other than pack a bagel, laptop, iTouch, contact info, a book.  Yes, even with all that technology, I'll take a book.  I won't be leaving until the car park closes, 9 p.m., and I didn't see any outlets in the waiting area when we went up earlier in the week, sitting in the same operating waiting area.  If I run low on power, I can always pull out a novel.

So, barring any unforeseen complications, I'll be back to the saddle sometime later in the week; I'll pop an update as soon as time allows.  Thanks for listening to all my goiter caterwauling, and keep Bob in your thoughts and prayers.  Hopefully soon that obnoxious goiter will be a footnote, only caring for my man, Christmas, finishing For God And Country and a wee bit of editing on my mind...

Well, and a smidgen of footie; my 49ers just clinched their division (NFC West), beating the St. Louis Rams 26-0, hoot hoot!  And Bob's Packers took it to the wire, winning by a last-second field goal over the NY Giants 38-35.  Green Bay is still undefeated, just by the skin of their teeth in this game, whew!

Alvin's Farm

As of 5.09 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, this book is live (and free)!  Amid NaNoWriMo, Bob's goiter woes, and American football, one of my all-time favourite novels was published today, the first in a series of six, a story originally planned to be a little 60K tale.  Sometimes the muse goes off on a tangent.  Alvin's Farm is one of those times.

What can I say about this book that would fully explain all it took out of me to write it, what I learned, felt, discovered, at times endured; if you're into family sagas, most certainly give it a go.  If you like love stories, definitely get your copy.  If the 1970s holds a spot in your heart, this novel is set smack-dab in that decade, February of 1975 finding Jenny Cope stepping from a Greyhound Bus into a cool, green world.  She's led there by a wily OAP (senior citizen), who teaches her to crochet, also opening Jenny's heart.  Small stitches start the process, then a challenged man takes over.  When Jenny Cope meets Alvin Harris, her life will never be the same.

If tangled webs are your preference, hold onto your hat; Jenny has been on the run since she was seventeen, living all over America's southeast, sleeping with any man who will have her.  Jenny's past rests in the shadows, of which rainy Oregon has plenty, rooting her feet to Alvin's farm.  She wants to run, all she's done for ages, but Alvin's compassionate, sunny nature lifts the clouds, his ocean blue eyes easing Jenny's paralyzing fears.  And if that wasn't enough, Alvin's not the only man falling in love with her.  Sam Cassel finds Jenny an intriguing mystery, reminding him of his late wife, brutally murdered when Sam was twenty-one years old.

What if farming or ranching is your speed?  Alvin tends Granny Smith apples, while his best friend down the road raises beef cattle.  Tommie Smith wanted to play baseball, but a car accident wrecked his dreams.  Now he's a philosopher, taking Jenny under his wing, what he's done with Sam after his wife was killed.  Sam's older brother Jacob knows the truth of that turmoil, why he drinks so much.  Tommie downs a few cold ones too, but as he balances visible and silent hurts, it takes a few beers to maintain his sanity.

I never planned this tale to unwind as it did, I really only wanted to write a little yarn.  Yarn figures prominently, Jenny's pastime when she's not cooking for Alvin.  She was only looking for a job, a new start, but in Oregon, has she finally found stability?  Or will Jenny's heart once again go through the wringer.  With two men in love with her, Jenny aches to forget her wretched past.  But even a decade after running from her family, memories linger under her skin, thunderstorms stirring pain not even Alvin can relieve.

Alvin's Farm is available on Smashwords for free, like all my ebooks.  The second in this series, The Thorn And The Rose, will be released in January 2012.  There's nothing so thrilling as publishing a novel, and Alvin's Farm warms me all through, perfect reading as days grow short, evenings turn chilly.  All I can say is enjoy!